


Coal Mine

by lackadaisical (alasweneverdo)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 05:43:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alasweneverdo/pseuds/lackadaisical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Re-post. In the aftermath of the fall, Molly is trying. Failing, maybe, but trying nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coal Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd, as with most of my things. Whoops.
> 
> This fic was previously posted just a day or two after the series 2 finale aired, but in a fit of annoyance I deleted it so I could put up an improved version later. This is that. Hopefully.

Molly knows. She knows because she was there. She helped.

But there is an image forever etched into the backs of her eyelids of him with his arms spread like a bird before flight, and _god_ , he's flighty even without his wings. He's a fragment of air, a trick of the light. It's like watching a canary chasing coal: it never ends well.

And even with him right next to her she's lost the power to hear him chirp.

_What do you need?_

_You._

She wonders if he knows about the sensations recalled on her cheek where she relives that pitying kiss from last Christmas. The feeling is there every time he looks at her, like he's programmed her nerves to betray her with the right stimulus. And all of this is further proof that her brain can't stop thinking he's dead; he's a phantom limb that she'll never be rid of.

Don't go to them, he tells her. You never were good at faking it. They can't know, Molly. Not yet.

But John—John is a ragdoll with frayed fabric and ripped seams. She can help him. She _can_. She's got a thread and needle that can work miracles. She will make everything better.

Sherlock's fingers touch her wrist, wrap around it. It's a gentle hold that he has on her, but coupled with the tilt of his head and sorrow in his eyes, it's enough.

They're in an abandoned warehouse, of all places. It's not an elaborate hiding spot, but it'll do. Better than a cave, according to Sherlock. As it is, the lighting is barely good enough for her to examine his wounds. Seeing him nearly bare doesn't excite her like it might have before. It just makes her feel like she's walking through another autopsy. Her hands tremble but he doesn't say a word.

Molly chokes out enough breath to ask, Will he ever tell them? Will he come back? Please come back, Sherlock. Please. Everyone needs you. This isn't _fair_.

All Molly asks for is a bit of birdsong. He's silent as the grave.

His shoulder's been dislocated, and there's some bruising on his head, but no signs of concussion. She spots the beginnings of a sneer on his face and braces herself, expecting to hear a scathing remark. She waits for it: _That much is obvious, Molly. Don't be so simple._ But he softens, looks her in the eye.

"Thank you," he tells her. "You've been wonderful."

She nods, a bit dumbly, and finishes bandaging his wounds—all superficial. She can set his shoulder, if he'd like. A look of worry flirts with his expression, and despite her grief she's a bit offended. "Do you think I can't?" she says, challenging. "I've done this before, Sherlock, and you can't even—you're not in much of a state to do it yourself, you'll make it _worse_ —"

Her voice has raised two octaves and breaks before she can cut herself off. The floodgates, so brittle with their spider's web of cracks, burst open with a sob and whimper. She clutches at her middle to hug her abdomen. All she wants is for everything to be okay, for her and for Sherlock and John—for Mrs. Hudson—for the whole world, which will be a lesser place without Sherlock in it.

"Molly," he says with a softness betrayed by his obvious exasperation, "I'm not _dead_."

"Yes you _are_ ," she cries. "You're dead to _everyone_ , and they don't know—how could you _do_ this to us? To _him_?" Her lungs can't keep up with all the feelings she has to let out, and for a moment she chokes. But before he can get a word in, she continues, "And why do I get to know, Sherlock? Why me? Why couldn't—it's not _fair_! It's—not— _fair_ — _Sherlock_!"

She's unfurled herself, her hands grabbing furiously at his front, and each word is punctuated with a fist to his chest. She hits him and pushes against him and sobs into his skin, and all he does is let her. When she's done he peers down and fixes her with an indecipherable look.

"It had to be you, Molly," he says. "You were the flaw in Moriarty's plan. That _boyfriend_ of yours never anticipated you."

"He wasn't my boyfriend," she mumbles, wiping a sleeve across her eyes. "Few dates—he liked you better anyway."

He doesn't laugh. She doesn't expect him to; it's a bad joke, if it even is one. "You were the only one who could have done this." She stops pretending to be preoccupied with her tears and looks up at him now, questioning. "The three people he kept watch over, ready to give the order to kill at a moment's notice—John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. You didn't count, Molly."

The lighting is not so dim that she can't see the apology in his eyes. But mostly she hears it in what he isn't saying: _Don't make me tell you again that I took you for granted, Molly Hooper._

Or maybe that's just her inner voice on a pity parade. She can't tell either way.

"What about your brother? And don't—don't lie to me and say you don't care about him," she adds with as much intensity as she can muster. "Don't lie to me, Sherlock."

He lets out a sound of unsuppressed amusement. "Mycroft is the British government, killing him would be messy. And improper," he says, almost as an afterthought. "Very Hannibal Lecter on Moriarty's part. He owes my dear brother most of his success, after all."

Molly isn't in the mood to ask questions about how Sherlock knows all of this. There's no point. She says, "Sorry for hitting you. Avoided your injuries, though."

"I'm feeling better than that corpse standing in for me at the morgue, at least," he tells her dismissively. It's his way of saying _Don't worry about it_. They're silent for a long moment, till he says, expectantly, "Well?"

She's befuddled, and her frown shows it. "Well what?"

He rolls his eyes in that _Must you be so stupid all the time_ way of his. "This shoulder isn't going to set itself."

It would be a lie, of course, for her to say she doesn't enjoy his grunt of pain. It is, in her mind, close enough to a chirp. She goes about wiping the coal dust from his feathers with renewed hope.


End file.
